The Sorcerer's Apprentice
by Nimbus 1944
Summary: When witnesses to history disagree, Dumbledore fears that an old source of trouble has returned to Hogwarts.
1. Default Chapter

Original story material is the property of the fanfic author; other material of Rowling et al. falls under the usual disclaimer.

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1. Betwixt and Between.

Hut-on-the-Rock, Celtic Sea;

Monday, 30 July, preceding First Year.
**__**

It was very kind of the Queen to lend us the royal beach resort for my birthday. I wonder if she'll sail in with a gift tomorrow.

Boys can be so sarcastic at this age -- which, at the moment, was 10-3/4.

In truth, it was a very boring day, and Harry Potter could not have been more miserable. The heat and humidity felt extremely high, even for late July, and an evening storm was coming. Soon they would be cooped up inside, and the shore boat wasn't due to return until morning. 

There was absolutely nothing to do on this dopey pile of rocks. 

He sat sweating in the shade of the stone hut, listening to the lapping waves, watching the silent lightning flashes on the horizon and letting his mind wander.

He had been 10 for a whole year, but today he could picture the odometer rolling. This morning he had been age 10-1/4; by Noon, 10-1/2. Now he was 10-3/4, and at midnight tonight, it would click into place for another year, and he'd be a big 11.

But he was mad at himself, because he had not thought to bring a school book, a toy soldier -- or even his hand-me-down deck of cards, with the piece of paper substituting for the missing king of diamonds (that card being presently taped to Dudley's bike to make a motorcycle noise). He would have been happy for a pencil and paper so he might go off in some dry nook of the hut, and draw, or write, or do something to keep himself from going barmy!

Then too, Harry was still in a snit about the mysterious letters, addressed to him. Uncle Vernon had been in a rage about them for days, with no explanation. Each day when they arrived, Harry was immediately locked in his cubbyhole while an ever-increasing number of letters was gathered for destruction. He knew nothing about their origins, save the letter _H_ on the red wax seal. 

So far, the odd envelopes had gone to ashes in the Dursleys' little-used fireplace. _Once we're over this_, thought Harry, _I know who'll end up having to carry out the ashes, and scrape the wax from the bricks. _

__

Oh, and I'll probably have to clean up the owl poop too. And who invited them to hang around our house, all of a sudden? Are owls supposed to flock? 

Then his pudgy, beady-eyed, cabbage-brained cousin stepped outside, and made it a very curious day.

Dudley, of course, was not one to ever say anything conversational to Harry. If it wasn't an insult, it was a taunt about what he was going to do next to spoil Harry's life. The Dud was looking for something, all over the rocks, even scanning the choppy waters. 

__

Poor Dudley. He misses his telly. 

No, no, no -- a seagull must have carried off his biscuit stash! That's it! He's already starving, isn't he! 

It would be a treat for Harry to watch his whale of a cousin try to swim to shore for a pudding. _Perhaps a whaling fleet will sail up, and he'll have to duck harpoons! _ Oh, bad luck for that; no whaling schooners happened to be handy. 

Besides, it would be more likely that the Dursleys would throw Harry in, and tell him to fetch take-away to feed the lot of them. He'd have to swim through ten-foot waves, with lightning bolts striking all around him, and fight off schools of blood-thirsty, orphan-eating sharks._ When a shark is swallowing you, do you punch them on the nose, or their eyeballs? I forget._

Harry, too, was rather hungry. Aunt Petunia had made a corned beef sandwich for him that morning, as they rushed to get him out of the house. Knowing how generous the Dursleys were with food, he had thought it best to pocket half of the sandwich all afternoon. 

He was keeping it for the moment he would find himself at death's door. There he would be -- crawling across the desert island to where the Dursleys sat at a full dining table laden with beef, lamb, greens and mackerel, consuming a sumptuous candlelight meal, and he would beg them for the merest scrap, and they would contemptuously brush half a corned beef sandwich off the table.

Harry was still off in dreamland when Dudley intruded.

To be more precise, Dudley yelled in his face. As usual, he didn't say the name so much as he expectorated it. "POTTER! What did you do with those letters?"

__

What now, thought Harry. "MY letters, do you mean? I never got any of them, you know that! They burned them all." 

Dudley's face turned purple. He grabbed Harry by the shoulders and pushed him down. Harry might have fought it if he could even move, trapped between Dudley's tonnage and the angular rocks digging in his back. 

"Get off me!"

"Dad put all those dumb letters of yours in his luggage, so he could burn them. Now they're gone, and so is the hotel receipt. We've looked everywhere, and we can't find them. YOU took them, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

Dudley persisted. "The letters that came to the hotel! Where are they?" 

"What hotel?"

"YOU PRAT! WHERE DO YOU THINK WE WERE YESTERDAY?"

"WE WERE HOME!" yelled Harry, "THEN WE CAME HERE!"

"HAVE YOU BEEN ASLEEP THE WHOLE TIME? Oh, Potter, you are so -- useless!" Dudley shoved off, struggled back into uprightness and waddled away into the stone hut. Apparently, he had tried to be his mother's little darling by bullying a confession out of Harry, but it hadn't had the desired effect.

__

Well, that was different, thought Harry. He sat up, and wiped the residue of Dudley's two POTTERs and one PRAT off his glasses.

After years of living with these three demented people, he was ready for almost anything -- but why should they all be thinking they stayed at a hotel? _We never stay at a hotel. How could I sleep through that? They've finally lost it! _

Hunger came to mind again. _Well, I'd better eat what I've got,_ he thought, _before Telly-tubby grabs it._ He reached to his shirt pocket for the remaining half of his two-course dinner.

But, the rest of the sandwich wasn't there.

Instead, his hand came up with a half-eaten packet of crisps, somewhat crushed by Dudley's shoving. Now, Harry was really disoriented. _Dudley wouldn't swap my sandwich for a treat -- he'd eat both._

He only noticed the rain when the first drops ran down his glasses. Rumbles of thunder were finally heard in the distance. A very puzzled Harry Potter, aged 10-3/4 or so and counting, shrugged off his confusion. He took a last glance around his island prison, brushed himself off, retied a shoelace and went into the hot, dusty hut. 


	2. Fireworks and Forgetfulness

****

2. Fireworks and Forgetfulness.

__ ****

Fred and George wanted to set off fireworks.

They had read about that long-ago Halloween week, when You-Know-Who was defeated by baby Harry Potter. Some wonderful firework celebrations had been lit off then, when word got around. The twins thought the time had come again.

Dumbledore said no, but understanding their reasoning (or excuse) for it, he offered to provide a compromise they should enjoy. 

At the end of the banquet that evening, only a certain few Slytherins opted to leave. The fires in the Great Hall were turned down; then, the enchanted ceiling put on a most spectacular and noisy skyrocket display. 

Even Fred and George were in awe. It did not, however, prevent them from slipping a few items from their considerable arsenal to a gleeful Peeves, who shot them off at odd intervals for hours, keeping everyone awake. If Dumbledore knew the boys were responsible (and how could he not), he never said a word.

The reason for a celebration, of course, was Harry Potter's second successful encounter with You-Know-Who. As well, now everyone knew the legendary Philosopher's Stone had been hiding for weeks under their very noses, right here at Hogwarts! Dumbledore had told the story by way of explaining the departure of Quirrell to the staff, and by now the whole school was a-buzz with it. With each retelling, wonderful new fables and plot twists were attached to the saga, but did that matter? 

* * *

On the second day, Ron wriggled his way out of Madam Pomfrey's mother-hen clutches. She had happened to mention the sound-and-light show, and he pouted about missing it all -- well, all except the grand finale, the repeating buzz bomb that Peeves had thrown in the Infirmary wing after midnight. In Ron's estimation, "Wicked, that!" 

Pomfrey decided all this sounded very much like the workings of a normal 12-year-old boy's mind, and wrote his release. His headache had lasted only a few hours after the mild concussion, from being slugged by the white Queen. He'd have bruises and soreness from several falls. Otherwise, he was none the worse. 

Ron was met in the Gryffindor common room by Hermione, who had sprained her wrist falling from the devil's snare, and had a few scratches from flying debris. Bickering certainly wasn't on the agenda today; they were mutually pleased to have escaped alive. So far, she hadn't talked much about their journey that night, telling others that Ron and Harry had really done it all, and they'd be the ones to ask. Ron agreed that they'd wait to talk it over with Harry.

Two adventurers semi-cured, one more to go! 

* * *

The older Gryffindors made a list of Harry's favourite treats, and brought some home from Hogsmeade for his friends to deliver. When Harry would finally open his eyes from days of Pomfrey's sleeping potions, they wanted him to find something more than tinctures and a chamber pot by his bed. 

Pomfrey reacted favourably to the lovely pile of treats. She tsk'ed about it being an excellent potion for creeping tooth decay, but freely admitted it would be good for Harry's spirits. NOT the additional present from the twins, though; by no means was a beribboned toilet seat going to grace her recovery ward!

A few Chocolate Frogs disapparated shortly after delivery; Ron just couldn't resist. Oh, he left the wizard cards for Harry -- except for the new one he coveted, Gren the Spear-Catcher, who looked even more beat-up than Harry the Sedated. Reading the cards kept Ron busy while Hermione dallied, feeling useful in trying to rub a little heat into Harry's chilly hands. They could hardly wait for Harry to be well enough to leave the Infirmary wing, so they could swap their blow-by-blow accounts, and hear about You-Know-Who. 

* * *

Harry was finally awake late on the third day, but only Dumbledore was allowed to visit. Hermione and Ron were requested to wait at the school. The headmaster was expressionless when he finally returned. Of course, they asked him how Harry was. 

He slowly replied, "Harry is recovering well; he should be out in less than a week. He was very impressed by the gifts, and he thanks everyone. There will be no visits, please. We'll let your friend get his needed rest." 

Dumbledore began to leave, then turned and added, "As you are his closest friends, I must tell you: all of it has been rather a strain on Harry, and you will find that he may not remember everything just so." 

With that, he left the two Gryffindors looking at each other in puzzlement.

* * *

By the seventh day, Harry was due for release. It was a chill morning for June, so the two waited for him on the entrance hall balcony, where it was warm and they could watch all the doors below... whenever their chatting didn't distract them from that purpose. 

Ron thought Hermione was getting carried away, the way she ran on about their friend in almost gushy, hero-worshipping terms. Always ready to help his dorm mate, Ron decided to gush back. He told Hermione that he reckoned Harry fancied her.

"Talks about you rather a lot, y'know. Calls out your name in his sleep, and makes these snogging noises. It's awful, really. But if you ask me, Hermione -- I think he loves you." 

Ron chortled to himself. _Let's see you get out of that, Harry! _

Hermione wondered why Ron would make up that silly story, but said nothing. _Ron_, she thought,_ if you only knew how I feel about..._

Just then, from the side doorway below, a familiar voice: "Oy! Frog-napper!"

Hermione beamed, and Ron practically jumped for joy. "Oy yourself, Sleepin' Beauty!" he shouted. 

Harry Potter was home, knackered but happy. Gryffindor's somewhat-unholy trio of First Years was finally back together. 

Harry allowed he wasn't up to, say, juggling bowling balls; this week, anyway. A few facial cuts were still healing, and his hands were singed. He had bruises on his neck from Quirrell's stranglehold. Also, he must learn to stop landing so often on his backside... a very poor strategic move in combat, and rough on the spine. Other than that, he was _so_ glad to be home!

They returned to the common room, settling in the warm, comfy chairs by the fire to chat, and to hear Harry's account of it all.

It went every bit as badly as Dumbledore had hinted it would.

Harry was wide awake and aware, but something was... off. He seemed to remember things just a little differently from their own version. 

Harry said Ron had not immediately escaped the devil's snare. He related how he had flown alone to catch the key, because there had been only one broom.

__

But it wasn't like that at all, thought Hermione.

Ron and Hermione clearly remembered McGonagall's wizard chess board, and how three black pieces had walked off the board so they could take their places. But they listened while Harry said that Ron had ridden on King's Knight, and had fallen from the stricken piece's back! 

Ron held his tongue; he knew he had stood alone at h3, and taken the full brunt of the brutal Queen-takes-Knight swing. Why, his skull had throbbed for hours!

Harry's self-assuredness was finally upset a bit by Hermione's mention of Snape's potions challenge. Harry did not remember it at all, but he let that go by. 

Nor did he seem to recall Dumbledore's timely arrival which, they heard, had rescued Harry at death's door, and caused You-Know-Who to flee in spirit form. In his version, Harry had reduced Quirrell and his hanger-on Voldemort to complete ashes with the touch of his hands, then was downed by the dark lord's escaping phantasm, which ran him through like a sword while he tightly clutched the Philosopher's Stone.

Was Harry the sort to be pumping up his own reputation? Not likely. So why was he saying these things?

This was not going well. Hermione and Ron glanced at each other. Ron could tell she had the same reaction to the differences in their accounts. 

Still, even as they conversed, something else bothered Ron, something he had discovered since then, and he had to find out.

"Harry, " he began, "back up. How did we get past Fluffy?"

"Oh, that was simpler than I expected," responded Harry, "as long as the enchanted harp kept playing. Rather a mad scramble when it stopped, wasn't it?"

Ron didn't answer, but gestured to Harry to wait, and turned. "Hermione? How did we get past Fluffy?"

Hermione looked down at her hands, and spoke slowly. "Fluffy was snarling. Harry brought his flute.... and he and I took turns tootling it.... and Fluffy slept." She looked up to Harry. "Please tell me you remember that?"

Harry hesitated. "I would, Hermione -- if that's the way it happened, but...it wasn't that way at all. I didn't think to bring the flute. You're right as always, I should have. But I figured we might whistle, or sing.....just wing it, y'know."

"Now there's a bother! You shan't believe what I found," said Ron.

Harry saw ironic humor in that. "Ron, if you told me Snape just went rolling by on a unicycle, wearing a clown suit and a red nose, I'd believe you. I'm a student wizard. I have to believe impossible things all day! But right now, I need both of you to help me, 'cause I'm very confused as to _what_ to believe."

"All right, then," said Ron. "Three days ago, I went back with Hagrid to recover our stuff from Fluffy. The cloak was there -- it's all right, by the way, and no one else knows about it. 

"But there was nothing else! 

"So, I went poking about in your things yesterday. Sorry, Harry, but I had to know. And there it was, plain as day. 

"Hermione, the flute was in Harry's trunk, at the foot of his bed, just where he always keeps it. It was like it had never left the dorm."

Hermione looked stunned. "So, you're saying... "

"I'm saying, that fits Harry's version, not ours. Which would mean that he's the all-right one. So far, Hermione, you and I are looking rather mental." 

Harry decided not to make a wisecrack. "Actually," said Harry, "we're all looking like we need to visit Dumbledore, right off."


	3. Shapes and Suspicions

****

3. Shapes and Suspicions.

****

If the three young Gryffindors expected a brief session of "Dumbledore clarifies it all", they were wrong.

The headmaster listened avidly to Hermione as she narrated the two very different versions of their adventure. Then Ron mentioned how he had found the flute where it always was. 

Dumbledore listened patiently, shuffling some parchments on his desk. Put aside their Tolkien-like adventures, and exalted battles of good and evil, and what he had here were three lively, loveable pre-teen children, left in his care for schooling. They were almost set to go home for Summer holiday, and at the moment one had a sprained wrist, one had been clubbed, and the last showed the marks of a strangler -- and the school year wasn't over yet! Torn as always between admonition and admiration, how should he guide them? He looked for an answer they could comprehend. 

"What you have told me suggests a very possible reason for your confusion. But I assure you, no one has gone mad."

"Can you tell us anything, Professor?" asked Harry.

"Until I know more, I can only offer a parable of sorts. Try to imagine life from the standpoint of characters in a book. The plot is their reality. One day they wake up, to find that a page has been rewritten in the book. Suddenly, reality does not match their memories. Would the characters feel Confunded?

"Well, it appears to me that your book _has_ been changed; your memories are befuddled.... and perhaps, mine as well! Bear with me, and perhaps we can clear it up before the end of term. I will set a test, which may uncover the roots of the problem.

"I will tell you this. It has happened before -- and here at Hogwarts."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" asked Hermione.

Dumbledore leaned back, smiling gently. "My three little curious puppies! Your fur is still smouldering from your last misadventure, but you're ready to go exploring my corridors again, so soon! 

"No -- I think my test is the only gentle way to do this. 

"More importantly, there is a degree of danger. The last time this matter arose, a student died -- and there's no need for that here."

* * *

Early morning found them in McGonagall's Transfig class. Exams were coming soon, and she was going to review the procedures for turning a variety of small household pests into songbirds. 

"May I have your attention, please? Before we begin class, I have a special request from Professor Dumbledore." 

"What's this?" whispered Ron, but Harry hushed him, saying "Dumbledore's test! It must be!"

"The request," McGonagall continued, "is in the nature of a experiment in thought projection. All classes are being asked this today. Professor Dumbledore has, on his desk, a carved wooden object. He wants you to picture its shape in your mind, and tonight, draw a picture of the object --someplace where your drawing will be safe, so you shan't lose it. Please, all of you, you will do him this one favour tonight, as strange as it seems? It has some importance to him."

__

If this whatever-it-is goes well, thought Harry, _perhaps we'll be hearing from Dumbledore tomorrow._

And indeed they did.

* * *

The Headmaster encountered the trio the next morning as they left the Great Hall. He greeted them with a smug grin. "I have some results to report. The test was surprisingly successful." 

"What was it like, Professor?" asked Hermione. "Was someone able to sketch your object correctly?"

"Oh no, Miss Granger. That was not the true goal. I did not want the object to determine the drawing; rather, that _the drawing should determine the object_. And so it did!

"For my test, I left a old, crudely chopped block of balsa wood on my desk. This morning, I find I have a neatly shaped, five-pointed balsa star instead."

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, indeed! For myself, if it had changed shape in the slightest, I would have been amazed no end! But this was very dramatic, and so I'm convinced that the old cause of this problem has indeed returned... a very powerful charm at work. Perhaps it is time that I explained it.

"Long ago, before I was headmaster, we had a student in Ravenclaw named Gregory Ziehr. He was rather the good wizard, and might have ended up as a professor himself. But in his sixth year, Ziehr innocently entertained a simple little distraction that would prove to be his ruin: he bought a Muggle notebook to be his diary. 

"He wanted to make sure it was all true to form. And to that end, on his own accord, he used _magic_.

"_He charmed the notebook to only tell the truth_. Ziehr kept his own blind trust that the book would, in time, correct whatever he wrote. With that foolish belief, he felt free to record both truth and rumour. 

"Alas -- the charm is proper for _beings,_ but far from perfect for a book. The effect of the truth charm was that whatever he had written in it _became_ the truth for some, as though he had commanded it to be. It did so by changing their memories. At times, even objects were magically driven to move or shape-change, as he had intended his own handwriting to change. 

"What he had mistakenly created is a most rare item indeed, known in the wizarding world as a 'wish-for.' It is a most powerful charmed object, and a good example of why the Ministry employs Mr. Weasley's father to ferret out misuse of Muggle artifacts. Ziehr would have been warned of such a device in his seventh-year studies.

"But as I said, it affected _some_, randomly. Not all minds were changed by it! We've never determined exactly what allows that; it is simply one of a wish-for's failings. Two people might witness some simple event today, and agree on the details, but if a wish-for is written tonight with a different version, the two might vehemently disagree the next day. 

"In time, even Ziehr realized what was wrong. His writings never corrected themselves; instead, reality was changing around him. 

"About then, the staff and Ministry also realized the rare problem afoot, and began their search for a wish-for at the school. I'm afraid it took on the nature of a loud, agressive, frantic 'witch hunt'-- if I may use that expression. 

"Ziehr feared what would happen to him when his misbegotten book was finally found by others. Who knows what else he might have written in it! Yet, he never thought to take direct action -- to properly destroy the book, or perhaps take a favourite teacher into his confidence. Instead, he kept to himself, constantly thinking of all the harm he had caused, and what dire punishments might result from it. His mind took a most foolish, irrational turn.

"Trapped in a whirlpool of misery, Gregory Ziehr made a potion for himself --

"-- a _fatal _potion."

The boys looked at each other, shocked. Hermione shook her head in sad disbelief at Ziehr's foolish act; now she could understand why _Hogwarts: A History _had not mentioned the wish-for. 

There was such grief in Dumbledore's face. "I still remember the anguish I felt," he continued. "Poor Ziehr! He suffered far more from his own guilt than anything the magic world would have ever thought to inflict on him.

"Properly, once the book's existance was uncovered, it should have been thoroughly destroyed. Some ignorant bureaucrat merely tore out the pages Ziehr had filled, and had them destroyed --leaving the rest intact, charm and all, to go its merry way. It could not have remained here; it would have been found and discarded in the Summer cleaning. I would wager that the remnant migrated back to Diagon Alley with other used books, and sat out the years buried in some dusty pile, then found its way back to the book shop's whatnot shelves. I believe it is here now, and that the star was drawn in the wish-for.

"Sadly, I have no simple way to quietly sort through all the students' papers to locate it. Many students keep diaries or private notes in such Muggle pads. For that matter, I am not entirely sure of its appearance, because it might be just a loose page or two out of Ziehr's book. Heaven forbid, it might be an entirely new wish-for! From the few changes that we have noted, I'd say that the person who has it seems to be a good and innocent person, but in any process of searching, we might upset other diarists whose entries are... uncomfortable. I hesitate for fear of repeating the result of the Ziehr search."

"Professor," said Hermione, "was our confusion the only such incident?"

"As far as I know, Miss Granger," he answered. "If it were a matter that few knew about, then we might assume the diarist to be a friend of yours -- but it was public knowledge; all the students and staff heard about your adventure, and nattered on about it in various versions.

"When I visited Harry, his memory slips were obvious, without an apparent medical cause. Not for a moment did I stop to think that the slips might be in my own memory, not his! It was days before you came to me, with two of you showing memories that disagreed with the evidence. That was when Ziehr's wish-for came to mind."

Conversation lapsed for a moment, then a gleam came to Harry's eyes.

"Professor.... perhaps this was _not_ the only incident."

Dumbledore looked at Harry over his glasses. "Is there something you haven't told me, Harry?"

"Something I haven't told anyone, sir."

Harry opened up with the strangest story, about a day on a rocky harbour island, leading up to his 11th birthday. He told them how his memories didn't match those of the Dursleys, or the contradictory evidence in his very own pocket. He had put the matter out of his mind until now.

"Of course, sir," he concluded, "that was during the Summer, and before I even knew about Hogwarts. So I can't see how anyone here could have known about it. Perhaps it's not pertinent after all."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and smiled. "To the contrary, Harry. I fully expect that we should be able to get together tonight and resolve our bothersome mind-mysteries. You have just given me an important clue which virtually names the poor fellow!" 


	4. Wizards and Wishes

****

4. Wizards and Wishes.

By arrangement, they gathered that night in the Great Hall. The ceiling had been darkened by then, and the many other fires damped. There was only the light and warmth of the one main fireplace, which was normally left burning all night while the house-elves cleaned the hall.

It was a chilly, damp evening. Dumbledore, warming his hands by the fire, teased the three young Gryffindors when they arrived. "Wandering my halls at night again, I see?"

Hermione answered, in mock shock. "Why, Professor! We'd never. That would be a violation of school rules!"

"Unless we were going to chapel, of course!" Ron chimed in.

That stopped Dumbledore in his tracks. He looked down at Ron. 

"Going to chapel! How odd you should say that! I've heard that phrase more than once over the years. And, though the nearest chapel is in Hogsmeade, I've let a few perpetrators slip by with that excuse. 

"In fact, I believe most, if not all, shared the name Weasley." 

Ron cringed. "Uh...yes, sir, that might be. But I would never use that line, myself, sir. Must have been Percy."

"Oh, no," said Dumbledore, "not Percy. Let me think. It was... William..... _and_ Charles...... _and_ Fred and George. It's almost as if it were handed down... as a line that old Albus Dumbledore would buy in a pinch. And where did _you_ hear it, may I ask?"

Ron danced around in the deep hole he was digging for himself. "Ummm... y'know who it might have been? My little sister, Ginny. She's coming next year."

"Ah... so I should watch out for her, then?"

"Good idea, sir," said Ron. "She has shifty eyes. Never know what she's thinking. A little con artist, she is. Gets everything she wants. My mother favours her over the boys, y'know. "

Dumbledore chuckled. "Thank you for that tip, Mr. Weasley."

Ron's little predicament was interrupted when the hall door opened.

"Good evening," said the new arrival, a tall, dark-haired boy. As he approached the light, they could see his robe bore the emblem of Hufflepuff, and rivaled Ron's hand-me-down in tatters. He appeared a bit nervous.

"Ah, we can begin!" said Dumbledore. "Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter! May I introduce Raymond Clovis, a Sixth Year."

"Oh, nice to meet you," said Harry, shaking hands.

"_Harry_ Potter, I presume!" said Clovis. "I've only seen you from a distance. Call me Ray, please. After talking to Professor Dumbledore today, I gather I've been causing some mental mayhem, and I owe you lot an apology."

"No apology's necessary, Ray," said Harry; "we're all right, thanks."

"Glad to hear that," said Clovis. "Although, perhaps you should hear what I've been up to. It's been inadvertent -- sorry about it, nonetheless." 

Dumbledore intervened. "I must agree with Harry, Mr. Clovis; no apologies are needed. Still, the explanation will help us all sleep tonight. You've brought the book again, have you?"

"Yes, Professor," answered Clovis, calming down, and handed him a thin black volume.

It looked to be an ordinary old Muggle-made shop-bought spiral-bound notebook, somewhat the worse for wear. Dumbledore looked it over, then proceeded to explain.

"Now, to Raymond's part in this.

"Raymond has no family, and almost no money for school. He has spent his summers here -- a tremendous help to the teachers in preparing for next term, and thus earning his way. 

"Flourish & Blotts occasionally finds half-used notepads buried in the stacks of used books they receive. Raymond, like others, can buy them for a few knuts, for his personal notes. 

In the process, he bought this, which is indeed the remnant of Ziehr's wish-for -- a most unfortunate one-off for Raymond. No one could have imagined it was still around after so many years!"

Harry reached for the book, and Dumbledore let him page through it while he finished.

"Raymond mostly wrote about the things that had meaning for him -- helping Hagrid and the teachers, passing exams, getting letters from classmates over the Summer, good times with good friends. If Raymond had written only about himself, we might never have noticed. However, he recorded a few happenings at Hogwarts, as he heard them... including a recent night tour of the third floor, taken by some stalwart First Years."

The culprits blushed. Just a bit.

"We have seen what confusion was caused by that entry, have we not?"

Harry looked up from the book and smiled. "And the other entry, Professor. It's here, too. This clears up a lot for me," he said, reading it aloud, while Hermione and Ron peeked at the page.

__

"Wednesday, July 30 - Saw Hagrid today, who asked if I would feed Fang while he is away fetching Harry Potter, who is coming of age for Hogwarts. It seems Potter's muggle keepers have denied him the school's repeated owl posts. Hagrid says he's got them now, tho; they have left their home in Surrey, and taken to an old fishermen's hut on a rocky island off Cornwall, where they can't hardly run nor hide. Hagrid will see to it that young Potter has a proper induction tonight." 

"Well, there you are," said Harry. "All correct, except the wish-for simply mentioned the house we left, and the island where Hagrid found me. Apparently we spent a night at a hotel. If Hagrid knew about that, he never mentioned it to Ray. So, thanks to the wish-for, by that evening I had forgotten the hotel stay, as if it never happened."

"So, that's it!" said Hermione. "It works imperfectly... so, you lost a day without noticing, but it didn't affect your relatives. And it made the letters vanish, but it didn't restore the sandwich, which you must have eaten at the hotel!"

"So, I'm sane after all," replied Harry.

"If you say so, Harry," zinged Ron. 

After jabbing an elbow toward Ron's midsection, Harry asked Dumbledore, "Professor, should I look for the entries on the night we went through the trap door?"

"There is no need, Harry," smiled Dumbledore. "I saw them this afternoon, and they can't help us. Raymond wrote down the jumble of conflicting reports that circulated the school for days. Those that were just rumour have been added to our memories by the wish-for, here and there, higgledy piggledy. Thus, all the confusion.

"I took the chance, Raymond, that you would draw your imagined object in the wish-for. Fortunately, you did; I see you even wrote a note about what it was. The wish-for diligently carried out your wish. The wood block shape-changed to suit.

"Harry provided the one clue that would have led to you inexorably -- the fact that he had a memory slip in July, before coming to Hogwarts. By your contact with Hagrid, you were the only student privy to Harry's movements that day.

"It is most fortunate, Mr. Clovis, that you did not speculate on anyone's injuries in the incident with Voldemort. Otherwise, they might still be in the Infirmary."

Clovis breathed a sigh of relief on that, but something still worried him. "Professor -- one concern. I've been doing well this year; but now, I wonder if my success was actually an illusion of the wish-for." 

"Raymond, rest easy; since no one disagrees with your success, I would assume it is real. Your progress has always been exceptional."

If medieval hair shirts were still in style, Clovis would have been wearing one. "Still, Professor, I feel like the Sorcerer's Apprentice. I didn't intend it, but I carelessly used a charmed object. And I picked the worst time to do so. Now I've scrambled the record of an historic event, to the point where no one will ever know for sure exactly what happened. I am so incredibly sorry."

"Relax, Mr. Clovis," Dumbledore replied. "If there was a sorcerer's apprentice, it was Ziehr. As to your entries, we _can _undo what you have written.

"Tomorrow, all will be as it really was; there will be only one version of Voldemort's defeat, for the four of us will simply tell what we saw, and no doubt we will all agree. Perhaps, as Harry says, he did not bring his flute that night; on the other hand, it is just as likely that tomorrow it may reappear on the third floor! 

"Raymond, your past is secure. Tomorrow, you will surely find that you have altered nothing, and harmed no one. I take it that you made notes in another book today, as we discussed, so your sixth-year diary is not lost.

"I must ask you three to do Raymond a favour and not mention this matter to others. I will thank the students for their participation in my experiment, and leave it at that.

"If any good has come from it, Mr. Clovis, you and the wish-for have carved me a fine balsa star! If it should resume its old shape tonight, I will only recarve it as you designed it. In either case, I will gild it, so it may decorate my tree at Christmas. A fine memento, eh? 

"Now, to undo... and to see to it that the wish-for does not return. Mr. Potter, will you do the honors?"

Harry and the others knew that a mere _finite incantatem_ wouldn't do for this charmed Muggle artifact, as hazardous as Dumbledore thought it was. They took a last glance at the innocent-looking spiral-bound pad in Harry's hands. Then, he consigned Ziehr's wish-for to the roaring fire. 

Together, the five magicians stood watch as the hearth's red-orange glow was overwhelmed with tall, green flames. From somewhere, Dumbledore brought out a velvet sachet, untied it, and poured out a bit of powder which he added to the blaze. There was a flare-up in blue, and even the spiral wire of the binding was consumed.

"We _never_ grow old and wise," he told them. "Even now, I am a child, seeking answers. If I had four lifetimes, I could still not learn the power of all the magic I've seen, and how to work it, and how to control it. In that sense, even I am the Sorcerer's Apprentice. 

"Having magic in a world of non-magic folk is like being tall in a world of the short. It makes us seem so unique, but yet we are only human. We have a gift, but we are not gods.....or demons. All our talents, including those we consider to be wizardry, are human, and we utilise them in very human ways. 

"Some of your talents will be extraordinary, and some minor, and some... will surprise you. We do not teach you new talents; you are born with them, or you are not. We can only help you discover and develop them, so that you can put these God-given talents to beneficial use. 

"The rule is simple. Use your talents wisely, and use your most powerful talents most wisely of all -- for that is how all men will judge you."


End file.
